“Would you allow your own sons to do this kind of work?”

She looks up and holds his gaze. “My sons have done worse.”

“Your grandchildren, then. Your little Avraham.”

She hesitates. “When we are children, we think that we are at the very center of the world. Growing up means that we realize that we are nothing in and of ourselves, our significance lies only in what we do, or what we are part of. These children are being part of something great.”

He shakes his head. She is wrong. But in so many ways that he cannot start to separate the errors, like so many bricks in a crooked wall. He only has the truth of his heart, which repels her words.

She looks up at him, and there is something in her voice that makes him indescribably sad. “I am no different. My worth is only in my work for the destiny of the Jewish People.”

He tries to concentrate on the children, but he cannot help but think of Tzipora, and the times she would spend just sitting, embroidery forgotten on her lap, a faint hum on her lips. He loved coming across her that way, he would gaze until she felt his presence, then she’d turn around and laugh. A tinge of pink would spread across her cheeks as if being idle were something to be ashamed of, when he saw in her, in her very sitting, a wholeness that filled his heart.

He takes a breath. “What you are doing to these children is good for your wool factory, but it is not good for the children.”

She blinks.

He continues, his voice picking up force. “Their clothing is wet from the spray of the sodden wool, and yet they are overheated from exertion. They may become ill. They are using strength that they do not possess.”

When she speaks, her voice is cold. “If they eat my food, then their strength belongs to me.”

It is on his lips to say, If you want to continue your soup kitchen in my home, then you stop this. But truth does not resort to threats. His thoughts continue unspooling: They eat in my house; they belong to me. Again he holds himself back. For it is just another falsehood and falsehood will corrode the straightness that is his most sacred possession.

He forces himself to keep his voice low as he speaks.

“They do not eat your food. They eat the food sent to them by the Almighty. And their strength is their own, it is not yours to command.” He sets his jaw and speaks with all the truth that is his own. “The children are not yours to command.”

No men are allowed in the imperial palace. Not unless you count the great, dark-skinned guards, and so Hurrem Sultan has sent her to the menagerie to meet this man, Kamran.

“It is a fitting place, you know,” the servant who has been sent to accompany her tells her over Hurrem Sultan’s words. “Her imperial highness said to tell you that before Adam married Eve, he named all the animals. And that it will do you both good to look around at the animals and think about whose nature you resemble and whose you do not.” The girl gives an exaggerated shrug and throws out her arms. “I do not know what she means, but she seems to think that you would.”

They walk out into the garden, and Bilhah surreptitiously studies the servant. Is she a guard, to make sure Bilhah does not escape? Or a chaperone? More likely, a spy. Not that it makes much difference.

They walk past the little stream that runs through the gardens, but it fails to capture her with its beauty. How did all this come about? Just as life was settling down for her, just as she was starting to feel safe, a newfound calm settling around her — it was then that this fresh danger erupted.

She stoops down and picks up a fallen branch and tosses it to the side. She should have known better. The only safe place is the grave, and even then they could dig you up and toss you into the river to make room for someone else.

She passes her hand over her forehead. Why is she thinking of death? A sickening jolt passes through her. She has lost something precious. That moment at the conversion ceremony was a sapphire she had worn close to her heart. But now. Now, that victory has been snatched away.

They arrive at the menagerie and the air is filled with the sound of the animals and also their stink. In this heat — torpid and heavy with moisture — even the sweet smell of the hay scratches her nose and eyes and overpowers her. A peacock struts past. She had thought those creatures so strange and exotic when she first arrived. Now she barely notices as they pass her, reminding her a little of the odalisques who perform skits and songs each week in front of Hurrem Sultan.

Where is he? What will he look like? Does Hurrem Sultan know — of course she does not, or maybe she has guessed, for that woman is nothing if not astute — that Bilhah’s heart is not available to be a toy or a plaything? That she will keep it closer than the tiny cat charm she stole that first week?

What will he look like? Despite her distrust and weariness, she is curious. Who is this Jewish man who has found his way to the Imperial Palace of Istanbul? Why and where is he from?

From a distance, she sees a man wearing an olive-green turban. Oh. She plucks at the long sleeves of her dress. Hurrem Sultan has paired them off according to color.

Bilhah lowers her veil, grateful for its protection, the smidgen of privacy it provides. He will still be able to see her features, but there is something between them, at least, and if she looks away, then the man will not be able to read her eyes.

She pauses by the monkeys, staring into the cage, her attention suddenly captured by the large creature with a baby clinging to its belly as it walks. Its black fur shines in the afternoon light. The servant-chaperone-spy-walks stands at a small distance behind her.

The man — Kamran — walks over and stands next to her. He must have another name. What is it? Why does she care?

“They live in families,” he says.

She does not turn to look at him, although she has the impression of a full, dark beard and defined features. What is he saying?

She keeps her voice flat. “Yes.”

They stand and watch as two large creatures amble over to each other. The monkeys sit down and the larger one rakes its fingers through the others’ fur.

“Do you think that they are sisters?” Kamran asks.

She still does not look at him. “Perhaps.”

“Do you have any sisters?”

He is trying to trespass into her life, impudent man. She quickly redirects the question. “Do you?”

“Yes. Four sisters. But it is many years since I have seen them.”

His voice is grave. He is willing her to turn, she can feel it, but she resists.

Still, she gives in to the urge to ask, “Where do you come from?”

“My family is originally from Spain.”

“Then?”

“Italy, then Greece.”

His answer makes her skin prickle. Hurrem Sultan has done her homework. He is from Greece. Where exactly? Not Salonika, but then, why not? It is not like she knew everyone in her home town. Fear grips her and something inside her begins to tremble.

She stares at the monkeys — they call to each other and swing lazily from the trees, but all she can feel is the presence of this man by her side and the girl behind her, ready to report each word back to Hurrem Sultan.

She forces herself to speak and to do so lightly. “The women are not usually allowed here to the menagerie.”

Kamran gives the smallest bow. “Then allow me to show you around.” His voice and talk is smooth. How long has he been here at the palace? Long enough to learn the Ottoman niceties.

“Is there any part you would like to see?”

She hesitates. “There is a creature with black stripes, a large cousin of the cat.”

“The tigre.” Spanish. “Nemir.” Arabic.

Is he showing off his skill? Trying to prove something?

He nods, turns, and continues along the walkway, turns left until they come to a large cage, covered in black iron bars. There, curled up in the corner, is a creature of orange and black.

Bilhah leans forward, faintly disappointed. It looks so… unremarkable. She wishes it would wake up. She wants it to amble over here and stare at her. She wants to stare into its eyes and make it back away from her.

“I have heard—”

“Yes?”

“That it is one of the most dangerous creatures alive.”

“That is falsehood.” His voice drops and becomes mellifluous and deep. “If you were to search the world over, the deserts and forests and plains—”

She turns, finally, and looks up at him. She is shocked by his appearance. A scar runs across his right cheek, ending in the corner of his mouth, so that his very lips are disfigured. But it is not the scar that shakes her. If before his words seemed pleasant enough, now she sees their harshness and how cruelty plays at the corners of his mouth and in the angle of his jaw.

“—the most dangerous creature alive is man.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 813)